The House of Cards
by Ged
Summary: Ryan's frustration has far reaching consequences. Necessarily M. Complete. Please review.
1. Chapter 1

**The House of Cards**

Well your faith was strong but you needed proof  
You saw her bathing on the roof  
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you  
She tied you to her kitchen chair  
She broke your throne and she cut your hair  
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah

- **Jeff Buckley** _"Hallelujah"_

………………………………………………………………………………..

'What the hell happened this morning?' Sandy's voice buzzed.

Ryan wished he could swat it. Kill it dead. He tried to tune it out, but then it sounded again, annoyingly reasonable.

'You raise a fist to anyone in this family, I – _we_ – deserve an explanation!'

_We_. What a joke. There was no _we._ There hadn't been for a long time but Sandy was the only one who didn't get it. Too busy putting out fires at the Newport Group, he was completely smoke screened, unable to see that his family was falling apart.

Ryan lounged mutinously on the bed and flexed his hands, groaning inwardly as the skin across his knuckles stretched painfully. Sandy stepped across and perched on the edge of the mattress.

'What's eating you, kid? I can't help you if you don't talk to me,' he pleaded.

But Ryan had nothing to say. How do you tell your hero that he has feet of clay? The old fairy tales wouldn't have had quite the impact had, say, Snow White woken up to the Prince's kiss and said, "You shit! I was in the middle of a fantastic dream and you fucked with it…" Or, if Rapunzel had refused point blank to be carried off on a white charger, claiming a violent allergy to horse hair. It wasn't that Ryan was ungrateful to the Cohens. He just couldn't pretend anymore to be what he wasn't.

He scowled at his foster father. 'You know what they say … you can take the kid out of Chino …' He left the sentence hanging and watched Sandy frown.

'Don't be smart, Ryan. We both know this behaviour isn't you.'

Ryan levered himself onto his elbows and stared at the older man. Was he serious? Sandy's black eyes gazed back at him, big with concern. Ryan guessed he was. And that was a shame. Poor Sandy. His stray puppy had grown teeth and claws and was biting the hand that had fed it. Sandy was floundering, reaching out for anything to help make sense of the mess he could feel but couldn't see. But Ryan couldn't bring himself to throw a lifeline. How could he when he was the one drowning? He flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Fuck them all.

Sandy sighed, exasperatedly. Clearly, reason had no place here. He glanced at his watch and considered his options. But there really weren't any. This would have to wait. Maybe the kid just needed some time.

'I have to go or I'll miss my flight. When I get back tomorrow, you and I are going to sit down and talk, man to man. Got it? Until then, you're grounded.'

Ryan grinned mirthlessly. Surely the irony was not lost on Sandy? In one breath Ryan was a man; the next he was being treated like a child. Confused much? You bet.

Sandy frowned. 'Ryan? Are you listening? Do not leave this house, for any reason.'

Ryan didn't meet his gaze, asking instead, 'Where's Seth?' He needed to see Seth, to explain. Maybe to apologize.

'Gone. I sent him up Luke's for the weekend. I want him out of the way until this is sorted. You need to think about what you did and how the hell you're going to fix it. I can trust you to do that, can't I?' But Sandy sounded uncertain and Ryan sure as hell couldn't provide any answers. Not yet, anyway. He shrugged, perversely delighting in Sandy's obvious concern.

'Tell me I can trust you, kid,' Sandy repeated quietly. 'Tell me or I'm going to have to do something we'll both regret.'

Ryan was almost tempted to push the boundaries, to bait Sandy enough that he might cancel his meeting and stay home. But he didn't. Later, when he was truly alone, he would tell himself that he had known exactly what would happen if Sandy left. Perhaps his actions had been part of some unconscious plan? God help him if they were, because it meant he had never been the victim.

Now he merely nodded at Sandy. The unspoken agreement made, Sandy turned to leave, pausing at the door to offer a parting shot.

'And next time you feel like punching something, make sure you wear these. Trust me, they'll fit.' He sighed. 'Your hands are a mess.'

He bent down to retrieve the boxing gloves stashed unceremoniously under the chair and threw them onto the bed. Ryan glanced at them and when he looked up again, Sandy had gone.

Ryan reached across and picked up the gloves. What was the point of punching if you couldn't feel the impact? He dropped them on the floor and studied the ceiling again. It needed a repaint. Perhaps he should tell Kirsten? He sighed and rested his hands on his belly. There was a lot he wanted to tell Kirsten. Peeling paint didn't top the list.

Maybe Sandy had thought he was punishing him by keeping him locked up, but the truth was Ryan had nowhere to go. He was fucked if he knew how to fix what had happened that morning, but at least he now had an excuse to think. Not because he wanted to please Sandy, but because he wanted to please himself. Something he hadn't done in a hell of a long time.

_Don't think …_ Gabby's warning filtered through, and he hissed as he recalled her voice. Her voice and her body … and her boredom. So long ago, but still he stirred at the memory. Shit. Groaning, he pushed himself off the bed and stalked to the door where he lounged against the frame and lit a cigarette. It wasn't quite dark, and a faint light came from the house. Memories. That was all he had to go on. Fucking memories. Memories of fucking. Forget the bases. Forget how close he'd come so many times, only to be interrupted by God knows who. How many times had he actually fucked anyone since moving here? He drew on the cigarette again and grimaced. He could count on one hand, which was pretty ironic considering how often he'd used that hand to service himself.

The weird thing was it hadn't ever really bothered him. Marissa and her on again/off again antics: _I want you … I don't want you_. _Touch me … but not there. Kiss me … but not on the neck, it tickles_. Tickles? Who the hell complains of tickling when you're trying to get into each other's pants? He sighed and closed his eyes, relishing the pain in his fingertips as the cigarette burned to the butt and died. Sure, that night on the beach had been great, but the effort required to do it had outweighed the pleasure. With Marissa, everything was an effort. Even love – if that's what he'd felt. He still didn't know and now it didn't matter. She was off blowing Volchock in some sleazy dive and Ryan was alone. Again. Lindsay had come and gone, Theresa was an uneasy memory and good ol' Ryan had been, if not content then, at least resigned to his memories and his hand.

Until last week when he'd wandered blindly into uncharted territory and found her wrapped in nothing but a towel. No, half wrapped, her smooth back exposed as she tilted her head and tousled her damp hair. The room smelled of hot soap, and drifts of mist wafted from the bathroom. How long had he stood there, watching as the towel slipped lower, wishing it would fall away completely? Had he actually spoken, or had she simply sensed him behind her, turning to meet his gaze? Perhaps she'd smiled, perhaps he'd imagined it. It didn't matter. What mattered was that even when she knew of his presence, he hadn't stopped staring, hadn't averted his gaze as he should have. And she'd said nothing. Not then, not now. No hysteria, no embarrassment, no wild clutching at the towel to hide what little he'd seen. She'd simply walked right past him – close enough that he could have reached out and touched her - back into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind her. The sound of the latch had released him from his trance and he'd stumbled back to the pool house, mortified yet so aroused. The anger had come later.

For six long nights as he'd drifted into broken sleep he'd relived that moment, memorizing every curve, every blemish, fantasizing how her skin would feel. But in his fantasy, as he thrust savagely into his hand, the towel was gone and she was beneath him, meeting his thrusts with his own, begging for him never to stop. And each morning he had awoken, alone and exhausted and full of self-loathing. He'd seen her clad in less by the pool and never once had he harboured thoughts of wanting to fuck her. She was out of bounds, illicit, a no-go area. But that moment in the bedroom, when he couldn't look away, had effectively removed any barriers. Now he was consumed with need and he knew that she knew it. And it was driving him crazy.

Ryan dropped his second – or was it his third? – cigarette butt and ground it viciously beneath his heel, marring the pristine tiles. Fuck Kirsten and her no-smoking policy. Fuck Kirsten. And therein lay the problem. Irony. Again. God, irony sucked.

He lurched to the bathroom and peered at his reflection. He looked like shit and his swollen, bloody hands ached. Dousing his face with cold water stung them further and he cursed. Grimacing, he peered at himself, hating what he saw and wishing that others could see it too. Guilt sucked more. Seth hadn't been the problem this morning, just the catalyst and Ryan closed his eyes as he recalled the ugly scene.

'Whoa!' Seth had whistled over breakfast, clutching one of Ryan's hands in his own, making him wince. 'Hate to see the other guy.'

'I just hope the "other guy" is hanging from a chain and made of leather. What happened to the gloves I gave you?' Sandy asked, mid-schmear.

'They don't fit,' Ryan lied. The truth was he'd been enjoying the pain. Nothing better to clear the mind - and cool the groin - than the bloodying of hands.

'Then I'll take them back and get you another pair,' Sandy said.

'Whatever,' Ryan had shrugged, uncaring of Sandy's quizzical look. An awkward silence descended.

'So Ryan,' Seth finally intoned. 'To bypass one difficult subject I feel duty-bound to bring up another.' He paused to shovel cereal into his mouth. And for effect. With Seth, everything was done for effect. 'Have you found a date yet?'

'Date?' Sandy enquired.

'Bonfire rally,' Seth mumbled through a mouthful of cereal. 'Ryan has no one to take.'

'It's a fire on a beach. No date required, because I'm not going,' Ryan was curt, wanting the topic of his dateless, sexless life dropped. Now. He glared at Seth, who chose to remain oblivious.

'C'mon Ryan, you know you don't mean that. A bevy of Californian beauties awaits the discerning young man … hey, speaking of discerning, Mom, I have a suggestion for you.'

Kirsten lifted tired eyes and smiled wanly at her son, who had moved to place his hands on Ryan's shoulders. He made a show of kneading them. 'Ooh, very tense. Mom, meet your newest client.'

Ryan balled his fists, hissing at the pain.

'You and Julie can find Ryan a date for the rally!' Seth continued triumphantly.

'Now this, I gotta see,' quipped Sandy, pausing and pointing his knife at Ryan. 'And when you and your Newpsie Divorcee turn up at the rally, she can introduce you to her daughter!'

'Or grand-daughter,' Seth replied. 'But seriously, Mom, I think you need to aim for something on the younger side. Walking frames and sand … not a good combination.'

Seth and Sandy chortled.

'Shut up, Seth,' Ryan muttered.

'Bad idea,' Kirsten whispered, gripping her mug of coffee too tightly.

'No, Mom, it's brilliant. You gain access to a whole new market and you get to catch up on all the teen dramas that make this empty town the place it is. And … Ryan just might get to relieve some of that tension, hey buddy?' Seth clapped Ryan on the back.

'Shut up!' This time Ryan snarled the words and watched Kirsten jump nervously. Sandy paused with coffee pot suspended, alert now. Well, at least he had someone's attention, Ryan thought.

'Don't thank me now, Ryan. Wait and see!' Seth uttered theatrically.

Ryan had leaped up, sending his chair crashing to the floor and faced his friend, shaking with rage. Sandy stepped forward, shouting. Kirsten cried, 'Oh God!' but Ryan didn't care. He wanted to hit Seth. Everything in his body ached to smash Kirsten's son, but the other boy's confusion and - was that fear he'd seen in his friend's eyes? – had doused his rage and his fists had dropped limply. He backed away, shrugging helplessly.

'Sorry,' he muttered. 'Sorry …' and he'd fled the house to the sound of Seth's plaintive cries. 'What did I say? _What did I say?_'

Nothing, buddy, Ryan now thought miserably. Everything. He switched off the bathroom light and paced the poolhouse. What had been a sanctuary was now a cage. He wished he could call Seth, but that probably wasn't a good idea. Gabby had been right – thinking just complicated everything. He needed something to numb his mind, to slow down the cogs, to help him forget.

…………………………………………………………………………….

Easing himself through the door into the kitchen, Ryan made a beeline for the bar. One thing you could rely on in this house – reformed alcoholic residing or not – was a well-stocked bar. Ryan had never helped himself to its contents before now. He drank, sometimes a lot, but never alone and never in the Cohen's house. It was a rule he'd made when he first came here and one he'd had no problems abiding by. Until now. He reached for a bottle of whisky.

'It doesn't help, you know.'

Shit. Ryan turned slowly to the lithe figure silhouetted in the doorway.

'So you say,' he muttered. 'But it will make forgetting a whole lot easier.'

'Only momentarily. Trust me, I know.' Her voice was soft and a just little sad.

Ryan stared at her, drinking in the vision of the slight frame draped in silk. Her hair was pinned up, making her look older, hollowing out her cheeks, painting her gauntly. The light behind her enhanced the image and Ryan thought he had never seen anything so beautiful, or so tragic. He glanced at the bottle in his hands and moved towards her slowly, almost predatorily. She was so frail, so delicate, he could actually see her heart flutter beneath her robe. Did he scare her too? He hoped so, because fear would keep them both safe.

'I'll take my chances,' he snarled, pushing past her. His shoulder brushed hers, knocking her against the door jamb, before he beat a hasty retreat to the poolhouse. She didn't try to stop him.

**tbc**


	2. Chapter 2

**II**

And I feel your fists  
And I know it's out of love  
And I feel the whip   
And I know it's out of love  
And I feel your burning eyes burning holes  
Straight through my heart  
It's out of love   
It's out of love

I accept and I collect upon my body  
The memories of your devotion  
- **Antony & The Johnsons** "_Fistful of Love"_

……………………………………………………………………………….

If he hadn't known it before, he knew it now. The reason he never drank alone, Ryan berated himself a couple of hours later, was because he really wasn't very good company. It's hard to have a conversation with yourself when you're not much of a talker to begin with. Just another reason why he'd found it so hard to fit in around here.

Blearily, he eyed the half-empty bottle. His thoughts ran like unraveled string, tangling, knotting in his brain, choking any coherency.

The whisky hadn't helped. She'd been right, of course. She. Kirsten. He shook his head to clear that image. Think of something else, he thought. Anything. He took another swig from the bottle and glanced at the phone. Seth. Seth, his friend, his wannabe-brother who had fled his wrath and was now with Luke who had fucked his ex-girlfriend's mother … a little like Ryan wanted to do with Kirsten. Oops. Wrong turn. Start again. He pictured Marissa, sprawled on this very bed, suffering – was that the right word? Yes, he thought it was – his touch. He pictured her above him, her soft mouth on his and then … then … the bloody door had opened and Kirsten had walked in. Shit. Nope. Start again. Lindsay. Beautiful Lindsay, the only one with whom he'd really felt any connection, a connection that had been severed - and afterwards never really healed - by … guess who? Yep. Kirsten. He laughed and the sound chilled him.

All roads led to Kirsten, even the detours and the back alleys. Like some hideous maze where every twisted path wound its way to the centre. But who was the monster and who the trapped and desperate wanderer? He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

All week he'd marveled that his intense need for this woman had exploded from nothing. But had it? He thought back to his rescue from prison, when he'd tried to protect her from that punk in the visiting room. Had that simply been a desire to shield her from harm, or had it been something else? Had her interference with Theresa been born of a desire to help, or spawned from some darker intention? Had her dismay at his involvement with Lindsay been merely a by-product of her shock at discovering Lindsay was, in fact, her half-sister, or had latent jealousy played a part? Had Ryan's own rage at Luke's betrayal with Julie been a manifestation of his own desire for the unattainable? Ryan rubbed his eyes and sighed. What the hell did it matter? Tomorrow he'd be gone. Tomorrow he could kiss all this goodbye. Tomorrow … except there was still tonight to get through.

He balled his fists, straining the healing flesh. They ached, but not as much. Perhaps the whisky had some merit. Perhaps he was just an unfeeling shit. He mashed another butt into the coffee cup masquerading as an ash tray and crawled off the bed. Pulling his sweater over his head, he shrugged his shoulders, loosening tense muscles. Slowly he circled the punching bag that beckoned from the corner of the room, its brown hide covered in dark smudges, remnants of earlier pain he hadn't bothered to wipe clean. There was one way to kill time.

Giving himself no chance to think, he pushed hard against the bag. It swung away heavily and as it arced back, he met it with his right fist. Pain shot through his hand and he gasped. This was stupid. But he did it again, this time with his left, doubling over in agony. Ecstasy followed seconds later. Again, and again, right, left, right, jab, jab, thump. After a few minutes he felt nothing as he circled and punched, circled and punched. A couple of times his hands slid slickly off the bloodied bag sending it spiraling sideways and he was fairly sure he'd cracked another finger, but he didn't care. Nothing really mattered except the exorcising of demons. Every now and then he would pause to gulp from the bottle, but the effect was superfluous now. He was getting high on something baser.

'Why are you doing this?' Kirsten cried from the doorway. _Punch. Circle. Ignore her. She'll leave. _

'Please, Ryan, stop!' _Punch. Sidestep_._ Not hard enough. Again. Break the fucker._

He concentrated, blinking away the perspiration that filmed his eyes. 'Go.' _Smash._ 'Away.' _Thump._

'No! Your hands! Stop. Stop!'

Kirsten was screaming now, pulling on his arms, but his skin was oiled with sweat rendering her clutches ineffectual. He shrugged her off easily and danced away. This was good. _Jab. _He felt great. _ Jab. _ In control. He drew his left back for another slug, seeing her stricken face beside the bag. God it would be so easy to miss and smash those haunted features. He wanted her to feel his pain ... but grunted as his fist beat the leather again. The impact jarred him and droplets of sweat and blood flew out, spraying her pale skin, marring the peach silk of her gown. She gasped, her fingers flying to her face.

He stopped, panting. Good enough. He stared as she smeared his blood from her cheek, restoring her perfect complexion. She stumbled back and inwardly he cursed her, and himself. The bag swung between them, inanimate, blameless.

'Kirsten …' Ryan mumbled. He stepped around and reached out a bloody paw, as though to undo his handiwork. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears and she shook her head.

She might have slapped him, her rejection was so obvious. _Fuck!_ Horror became despair and he lurched against the bag, hugging it like a lover, pressing his face against it to stifle the sobs that wracked his body.

'Oh Ryan,' Kirsten whimpered. 'What have we done to you?'

It was a moot question. His body heaved. Shit, he was going to vomit. Not here. Not in front of her. He swallowed hard, fighting for air. Tears stung his eyes and he swayed, groaning. Was this the culmination of conditioning, to paint over each crack with the thinnest of veneers until one resembled an ancient masterpiece awaiting the restorer's brush? Dorian Gray had nothing on him. Ryan choked and his knees buckled.

He would have fallen, had Kirsten not reached for him, clumsily guiding him to her. Even then he could not support his own weight and, sinking to the floor before her, he burrowed his face into her belly. Blood sullied silk as his arms circled her thighs and he cried at last, three years of tightly-leashed misery spilling viscerally against her, soaking her. He could feel her fingers against his hair, could hear her soft voice soothing his terror, feminine, loving.

And so they remained, a queen and her knave, locked in an ageless embrace. The picture they painted, of succour and supplication, might have adorned any ancient edifice, graced any cathedral window, but as Ryan's tide of grief ebbed he realized there was nothing holy about what he was feeling. His mood was black, his intentions dark. Someone had to pay, and Ryan was spent.

He felt her hands flutter above his shoulders, wary butterflies seeking a safe place to land. He raised his arms and pulled her gently down to kneel before him. She made no protest but her eyes avoided his. Instead she let her fingers trace the scars that notched his young life; a deep gash across his left shoulder, courtesy of Trey, had healed to a pale puckering; four white pocks on his neck would forever remind him of his incarceration. Countless others marked his hide; stains of his struggle against change. She cradled his hands and her tears fell on his wounds, stinging them. Raising one hand to her mouth she kissed each knuckle, as a mother might kiss away the hurts of a child. In a saner moment, the image might have been his salvation. Now it just sickened him.

'I'm sorry,' she whispered sadly. 'So sorry …'

'Shhh,' he soothed her now, not because he felt she deserved it, but because he didn't want to listen to any more apologies. He was done with rhetoric.

Raising a hand to her face, he brushed his knuckles across one cheek, then the other, removing her tears and replacing them with a trail of his blood. War paint. She looked magnificent, a woman for whom he would sacrifice anything. Except himself.

'I can't do this anymore, Kirsten,' he muttered and tilted her chin, forcing her eyes to his. His intent couldn't have been clearer and she swallowed nervously. The movement caught his eye and suddenly he wanted to bend and kiss her neck. She opened her mouth to protest, to fight his desire. But he, who could no longer fight it himself, would win this battle. He had known it all along.

'I love my husband,' Kirsten slowly intoned a long-rehearsed line that had no place here.

'This is not about love,' Ryan replied. He almost laughed. _Love?_ Fuck love. We all walk that fine line, he thought. It's only a matter of time before you fall and it doesn't much matter to which side. He slipped his arms around her, binding her to him.

He felt her struggle then, pressing her hands to his chest to push against him. But he had strength, aided by an aching need, on his side.

'Please, Ryan,' she whispered. 'I … don't want you to do this.'

Some part of his fogged brain registered that she was lying, but no sooner had she spoken them than her words dissolved, became wraiths, taunting him. He growled with frustration. Any tenderness he might have felt deserted Ryan now. The primeval urge to conquer and mate had overwhelmed all other sensibilities.

His right hand slid up her back, following the curve of her spine, burrowing into her nape. He yanked savagely on the clip that bound her hair and she gasped as her neck arched with the force. He leant forward then and pressed his mouth hotly against the pulse that beat under her jaw. Tangling his hand in her tresses, he pinned her head back, while his left hand pressed against her buttocks, forcing her hips to his. She felt his need and bucked away, moaning.

Tracing his tongue across her throat, he drew a wet trail up her neck and bit savagely on her ear lobe. She beat her fists against his chest and he snarled an answer to her earlier question.

'This is what you've done to me, Kirsten! Now let's see what I've done to you.'

He pushed her back onto the floor, pinning her beneath his large body and thrust his hand beneath her gown. He had known she was naked beneath, had seen the dark shadow of her pubic hair where his tears had soaked her gown. Two fingers touched the soft folds between her thighs and thrust into her. She stiffened and he sighed with relief as he felt her wetness. He hadn't been wrong. He watched her eyes widen with shock, and something else, and he pushed again.

'Don't fight me, Kirsten. Don't deny me. Not now,' he pleaded, twisting his hand into her, burrowing deeper. Her hips writhed instinctively, but she shook her head, eyes defiant.

'I hate you,' she whimpered. 'I hate you.'

He pulled out of her then and brought his fingers to her mouth, sliding them over her lips and against her tongue. She tried to turn her face away, but his other hand held her fast.

'Taste your hate, Kirsten. It's sweet.' His cruelty shocked him, but he couldn't stop. He wanted to punish her, because he could. He wanted to hurt her, because he must, because to do anything less would be denying his needs, again.

'I don't want to make love to you, Kirsten,' he whispered and, with sudden urgency, he pushed his sweatpants down. Ah! He saw her fear then, naked, tangible, but alas too late. The time for turning back had long past, repentance would come in the morning.

'I want to fuck you,' he said matter-of-factly, and leaned down to kiss her mouth for the first time, without gentleness and the soft caress of tongues. Stifling her denials, he bit her lower lip, forcing her to open her mouth in protest and then thrust his tongue inside, plundering its moist interior. She bit him back and her nails raked his chest. He grunted when she drew blood. He slid a hand between her thighs again, pushing her legs apart, testing. Christ, she was so wet, so ready for him.

He thought briefly of moving her, carrying her to the bed where he could pay due homage to her frail beauty. But his need dictated otherwise and without ceremony he rolled her over, lifting her hips with one arm. Blinking away the sea of familiar faces that danced before his eyes – a jury that would forever condemn him – he spread her thighs and plunged into her. Ryan cried out as he felt her warm flesh expand to accommodate him and he paused, gathering himself. He didn't care that he was taking her on the floor like a dog. It seemed fitting, somehow, to bring her down to his level. From stray puppy to mangy cur, he thought, making his first slow thrust inside her.

Kirsten moaned and sank her head upon her arms on the cold floor, raising her ass higher in the air. Her weight was supported by his arm, but she was so light she might have been the stuff of fantasy. She wasn't fighting him anymore. She had surrendered, to become the spoils of his hollow victory. He thrust again, slowly now and she matched him, her buttocks slapping hard against his belly. He pushed her gown down her back, exposing her lithe body. Her bottom begged to be caressed and when his thumb traced the crack between her buttocks, she whimpered and wriggled against him.

But it still wasn't enough. He needed to hear her voice her own longing, to beg for his touch. He needed her acquiescence; otherwise he was no better than Trey, was he? He withdrew suddenly and she twisted her head with surprise.

'Ask me to fuck you,' he panted, his breath hot against her skin.

'I …I …' she gasped, but then shook her head.

'Please!' he snarled, and sank into her again, then withdrew, teasing her with his power. Sweat filmed his brow. He did it again, almost losing control. She stifled a frustrated scream.

'Yes.' No mere whisper, but a plea. Her voice hardened. 'Fuck me, Ryan. Now!'

With a guttural cry he lunged into her. Both hands now gripped her thighs, holding her tight to him as he ground against her. She was little more than a rag doll as he shifted her body first one way, then another, to assuage his need. He leaned forward and grabbed her hair, raising her upper body, pulling her tightly to him and riding her hard. His knees hurt, but pain was relative. He had a deeper ache to ease.

He thought he heard Kirsten scream her release, proving in the end no match for him. Ryan felt her spasm against him long before he was ready to come. He paused for a moment, allowing her to enjoy the sensation, then slammed into her again letting her know that any fucking would be done on his terms. There were some lessons you were never too old to learn.

**tbc**


	3. Chapter 3

**III**

Oh I'm scared of the middle place

Between life and nowhere

I don't want to be the one

Left in there, left in there.

_- _ **Antony & The Johnsons** "_Hope There's Someone"_

………………………………………………………………………………

Ryan padded from the bathroom, cradling the bowl and towel. Kirsten was still there and he paused, his heart hammering. Was it relief he felt, that she hadn't fled, or regret?

She lay curled upon the bed where he'd placed her, a foetal reminder of his savagery. Her ruined gown had become a shroud, draping her stiff, still form and he mourned his senseless killing of trust. Placing the bowl on the nightstand, he lowered himself onto the bed and tentatively touched her thigh. She flinched. _Damn_. He guessed he deserved that, but it made it no easier to bear.

'Kirsten? I … you … I need to take off your gown,' he stammered, trying not to sound like a complete monster.

She made no answer and, sighing, he reached down and lifted her into a sitting position, sliding the robe from her shoulders and shucking up the gown. Like an automaton, she lifted her arms up and he peeled the silk from her body, tossing it aside. Then, ever so gently, he lowered her again so that she lay exposed to his gaze. Again, there was no sign of untoward modesty, no protestations. Her arms lay limply by her side and she stared at the ceiling, much as he had done earlier. Maybe now was a good time to talk paint colours? He shook his head. _Enough with the jokes, asshole_.

Dipping a corner of the towel into the bowl of soapy water, he began to clean her face, wiping away every vestige of his blood and sweat. Her ear lobe throbbed red where he had bitten it, and he'd punctured her lower lip, so that her blood mingled with his. Tenderly, he held the wet cloth to it, as if to miraculously heal the broken skin. She made no sound, no movement. The room was clammy and stank of sweat and sour sex, yet her skin was as ice. Except for the pulse in her neck and her open eyes, dark with some unfathomable emotion, she might have been dead. He dipped the towel again, this time sponging her neck, her shoulders and, almost hesitantly, her breasts. And so it went. Dip. Squeeze. Sponge. Dip. Squeeze. Sponge. The water dirtied to a sickly pink, blushing with guilt. Keeping his expression shuttered, he parted her legs and washed between them, removing the evidence of their coupling.

He hadn't used a condom. Who thought of condoms when possessed by rage? Who could stop and fiddle with fucking foil wrappers when seized by an urge so basic it was positively primeval? Did animals bother with condoms? That's what he was. A fucking animal. He stifled a sob. _Shit!_ _He hadn't used a condom!_

Rolling her onto her side, he recoiled in horror. Her hips were already discolouring where his hands had gripped her and he could clearly see where his teeth had grazed her shoulder and spine in his frenzy to possess her. Ryan swallowed the acrid bile that threatened to choke him. With trembling hands he resumed his ministrations, wishing with each stroke of the towel that he could undo what he had done. The water was beyond pink now. It steamed red, not bright, but dark; the colour of death.

Quietly, he finished purging her of his filth. Quietly, he pulled the sheet up over her body, as though the thin cotton might shield her from further harm. Quietly, he picked up the bowl and moved away.

…………………………………………………………………………..

Kirsten watched the man-who-was-not-a-man slouch against the open door, his profile bowed under the weight of invisible demons. She hated that he was smoking. She could hear every exhalation; smell the staleness of every breath. She saw the muscles bunch in his arm each time he lifted his hand to his mouth, watched his chest expand as he drew the smoke into his body. His sweatpants hung low on his hips and she could see, faintly, the fuzz of hair that curled above the waistband, a shadowy mist against the house lights.

He flicked the butt out into the garden, uncaring, and its bright arc was as a shooting star, brilliant, brief, intangible; a thing to be wished upon. Except wishes never come true, she thought sadly. And if they did, their imagined fantasy never played out as it should. Wishes were for children, but there were no children here.

He turned then and walked across the room. She was not afraid of him, only of herself, of what she had revealed in those moments of surrender. And when he had bathed her, his large hands that had earlier been so cruel, had become gentle, and she had not trusted herself to speak or even look at him, lest she betray herself further.

She could see the thin scratches upon his chest, where her nails had raked him. They had already crusted and she was pleased that she had scarred him, that he might bear the memory of her upon his body. He had clumsily bandaged his hands, but hadn't washed himself and she could smell him, could smell the salty stench of their misdeeds that he wore like tarnished armour; it was as though he knew that no amount of scrubbing might remove his transgression. He was gilded with guilt.

Silently, she watched as he pulled his trademark wife-beater over his head. Wife-beater. What a terrible word, Kirsten thought suddenly, its implications making her shudder. It might have been appropriate, except that she wasn't his wife and he hadn't beaten her. No, he hadn't done that.

The bed jarred as he slung a carry-all onto the mattress. She hoped this meant he would leave soon, abandon his outdated sense of honour and slink away to relative safety. But she knew her hopes, like her wishes, would not be granted. Any one else might have run, but this one was different. Hadn't she always known that?

Through half-closed eyes she watched him gather his meager belongings, unhurried but purposeful. The shadows cast upon his face, and in his eyes, lent him the air of one that is doomed.

This boy-who-was-not-a-boy was already in exile.

……………………………………………………………………………….

Ryan knew she was watching him. He had felt her eyes follow him around the room, had felt them settle upon his skin, chilling him. He pushed the last of his belongings into the carry-all and zipped it up. Three years in Newport and he was taking no more than he'd brought. He hoisted the bag and dropped it at the door where it lay across the threshold, dark and misshapen; Cerberus guarding the gates of hell.

He turned and wandered back to the bed. Kirsten blinked her eyes, clearly exhausted but struggling to stay alert. She hugged the sheet to her and her tousled hair fanned across his pillow. Ryan bent over the nightstand and opened the drawer, pulling out two strips of leather and he felt her gaze upon him as he tightened the chocker around his neck and strapped the thicker band around his wrist. It was stupid, but he felt whole again. He glanced at Kirsten and knew she understood.

Grasping the neck of the whisky bottle, Ryan paused before splashing its contents into an empty tumbler. She watched him warily. He held it out to her.

'Drink it,' he urged.

She shook her head, feigning outrage. 'I don't drink anymore.'

'C'mon, Kirsten, I know you drink on the quiet,' he said. She glanced at him sharply, but there was no accusation in his eyes, only sadness. Sighing, he thrust the glass at her. 'Just drink it, okay? It'll help you sleep.'

Lifting herself onto one elbow, she took the glass, a little too eagerly. Her fingers brushed his and when she held the tumbler to her mouth, her hand was shaking. The liquid burned her throat. She coughed and gave it back to him.

He shook his head. 'All of it.'

Too quickly, she drained the tumbler and only then did he take it back. She should leave, she thought suddenly. Return to the house, to solitude, to safety. But her limbs ignored her, as if they already knew what her brain was denying: that in this room she had absolute sanctuary. She sank back onto the mattress and Ryan switched off the lamp. In the darkness, she saw him walk to the chair and settle in it, black against a backdrop of shadows. The alcohol slowly warmed her and as her eyes reluctantly closed on his lonely vigil she was reminded of a condemned prisoner awaiting execution.

Her dreams were filled with tears.

……………………………………………………………………………...

Ryan watched her sleep.

There were so many things he wanted to say but probably never would. She had stayed, at least, and it was relief that he felt, he was sure of that now. Light from the main house filtered through the doors and he could see her easily from his shadowed corner. More than twice his age, yet her pale and fragile beauty gave the illusion of one much younger. Apart from the occasional murmur and a fitful toss of her head, she slept quietly, with the same grace accorded her during daylight hours. She was dreaming and he wondered impassively if she dreamed of him.

He considered the woman who lay before him, this woman who for three years had controlled his life. Oh sure, it was Sandy who'd brought him here, but it was Kirsten who'd subsequently banished him. Later, after his retrieval from prison, it was she who'd acquiesced and allowed him to stay. She had manipulated his quasi-acceptance by the Newport crowd; she had pushed for his entry into Harbour; she had masterminded whom he saw and, when it didn't suit her, whom he didn't. She had accused him, she had exonerated him and she had loved him. Kirsten was the power behind the throne and Sandy, with his crooked grin and his crown askew, had little inkling that his role had been usurped.

Sandy. _Oh God!_ Ryan's breath caught and he squeezed his eyes tight, trying to block out the older man's affable visage. All that trust; obliterated in a moment's frenzy. All that love; gone. And Seth? How was he going to explain to his friend that his act had been one of exigency, not retribution? It had, right? His fucking Kirsten hadn't been planned. He hadn't known it would happen, right? Except … except … he had. He'd known it a week ago, when he'd seen her in that damned towel. He'd known then that every wrong could be made right, every hurt healed, if he could only get inside her. Pre-meditative. That was the word, wasn't it? A single word that separated the unlucky from the unhinged.

If he was honest – and if any moment called for honesty, it was now – he wasn't sorry for what he'd done. Only for how he'd done it. He was not given to self-pity, or untoward blame. He'd always faced very adversary head-on, taken every blow on the chin. He would face this too. He would clean up this fucking mess and then he would leave. For good.

He watched as Kirsten moaned in her sleep, her legs thrashing the sheets. But if he felt no pity for himself, he wondered, then why, oh why, did he pity her?

………………………………………………………………………………

_Kirsten scrubbed and scrubbed. Her hands were raw, but no matter how hard she rubbed the silk, the blood wouldn't shift. If anything, the stains grew brighter, scarlet. Someone coughed, and she looked up then to find herself in a large, brightly-lit room. A sea of faces stared at her and she realized she was naked but when she tried to pull the gown from the water to cover herself, it wouldn't budge. She stood utterly exposed. _

'_Kirsten Cohen,' a voice above her rumbled. She looked up and saw her father wearing a white curly wig and wielding an enormous gavel. The centre of his chest was torn open. And where his heart should have been there was nothing._

'_Dad?' Kirsten whispered._

_His head swiveled in her direction and he frowned. 'Kirsten Cohen,' he repeated. 'You stand before this court accused of a most heinous crime. How do you plead?'_

'_Dad, it's me, Kirsten-'_

'_Quiet!' Caleb thundered and brought the gavel down upon the bench. The room shook._

'_Oh, she's guilty Your Honour.'_

_Kirsten turned to see Sandy striding across the room, his upper lip frothed with cream cheese and bagel crumbs littering his shirt front. He was wearing a bow-tie and glasses and flicking a giant cigar. He looked like Groucho Marx in drag._

'_Oh, Sandy,' Kirsten sighed with relief. 'Thank God you're here.'_

_He flicked his cigar at her and waggled his eyebrows. 'Ladies and Gentlemen, I present … Exhibit A!'_

_He seized the gown and, without effort, pulled it dripping from the bowl. The water had turned dark amber and Kirsten realized it was whisky. She was suddenly thirsty. _

'_Is this not the gown I gave you last year?' Sandy demanded, holding it up for the court to see. 'And is this not the same gown you were wearing when you had sex with the victim? Is this not his blood that you have been trying to wash off? Know what I mean? Know what I mean?' Flick. Flick. _

_The crowd leaned closer, leering. She could hear them hissing: _

_I knew it! _

_Kirsten Cohen's nothing but a whore!_

_Leading that poor boy on …_

_What a waste of a young life …_

_If you ask me, he had it coming. Kirsten recognized that voice and looked across to see Julie buffing her nails and clearly bored._

_Dawn stepped forward and waggled a fat finger at Kirsten. 'You promised you'd take care of him!'_

_Theresa, clutching a tow-haired baby to her breast, gazed at her sadly. 'He's gone, thanks to you. We'll never get him back now …'_

_Other faces swam in the crowd: Marissa, Seth, Jimmy, Lindsay …_

'_Sandy?' Kirsten clutched at her husband but he shook her off._

'_Call your first witness,' Caleb ordered._

_Carter materialized before the bench._

'_Did you have an affair with the accused?' Sandy asked. Flick. Waggle._

_Carter shook his head regretfully. The crowd sighed with disappointment. 'But I wanted to,' he added brightly and the crowd cheered._

'_And did the accused also want to have an affair?' Sandy probed. Waggle. Flick. _

_Kirsten shook her head._

'_Absolutely!' Carter affirmed, puffing out his chest. The crowd went wild._

'_Thank you. Thank you. Next witness!' Sandy shouted. Carter vanished and Jimmy appeared, dressed in a sailor suit and sporting a beard. He leaned upon a golfing iron._

_Sandy clapped Jimmy on the back. 'How's the golf? … Got that handicap down yet? … know what I mean?' Flick. Waggle. Flick._

'_Can we get on with this?' Caleb snapped. 'I'm late for a lunch meeting with a very important client.'_

'_Yes, of course, Your Honour,' Sandy said and turned to Jimmy. 'Now, take your time and in your own words, please tell the court what transpired in your apartment two years ago.'_

'_You mean when we kissed?' Jimmy asked. The court booed and hissed._

'_You kissed her?' Sandy shot a how-could-you glance at his wife. Jimmy nodded eagerly. _

'_And she kissed you back?' Jimmy nodded again, his head bobbing up and down so fast Kirsten feared it would fall off.._

'_He's lying!' Kirsten cried. 'This is all a terrible misunderstanding!'_

'_Silence!' Caleb thumped the bench again. 'I will have order in my court!'_

'_Bring in the victim,' Sandy ordered with theatrical aplomb. 'Your Honour, I present Exhibit B!'_

_The huge double doors at the back of the courtroom swung open and the crowd parted before a floating open coffin. Kirsten was higher now, above the crowd and she could see Ryan, his eyes closed, his skin grey and flaccid. The sweatpants and wife-beater were gone and he was clad in nothing but a towel - her towel. The scratches she had left upon his chest had festered and split and maggots were crawling in them, eating him from within. The crowd hushed reverently._

_Jimmy elbowed Carter and whispered, 'Poor bastard. That could have been one of us, you know.'_

'_What are the coroner's findings?' Caleb asked impatiently._

_The crowd surged forward, everyone an expert._

'_He died of neglect!' Marissa cried._

'_He died of loneliness,' wept Dawn._

'_Frustration,' Seth pronounced._

'_A broken heart,' Lindsay replied._

'_Stupidity,' said Julie._

'_Hey, he died a fucking hero!' Trey accused._

_Nooooo! screamed Kirsten. Ryan's not dead! He's not dead! He's not dead! But no words came out. She was balanced on a precipice, overlooking the courtroom. And it was cold. So cold. _

_Caleb yawned. 'What say you, the jury? And for God's sake, make it snappy.'_

_The crowd suddenly materialized behind her and shouted as one, 'Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!' _

_They moved towards her, prodding her with accusations and bony fingers. Kirsten backed desperately away from their wrath, until she could go no further. With a cry she slipped over the edge and was falling, falling, falling down to the lonely coffin below. And as Kirsten tumbled towards it, Ryan opened sightless eyes, grinning cadaverously as his arms spread to receive her._

_She screamed._

………………………………………………………………………………

She was settling now. Her first screams had chilled him, but gradually they'd subsided. She hadn't woken, at least not fully, and Ryan had held her close, cradling her against his body, until she slipped back from the threshold. She still trembled and he could feel her heart racing. Must have been some nightmare, and he wondered briefly if he was to blame for that too. Probably. He soothed her, stroking her hair until even her moans ceased.

He bent and kissed her forehead. Once. Twice. She was in that place between sleep and wakefulness and he rocked her gently so that she might drift away again. He inched down the bed and pulled her into him. Then, closing his eyes he drifted with her feeling, for the first time, some semblance of peace.

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

**IV**

Well my heart had a problem in the early hours

So I stopped it dead for a beat or two.

But I cut some cord and I shouldn't have done that

Now it won't forgive me after all these years.

**- KT Tunstall** _"Black Horse & The Cherry Tree"_

……………………………………………………………………………………………….

Ryan surfaced reluctantly and realized two things: a soft body lay comfortably within his arms and the phone was ringing. Disorientated, he nuzzled into the first, tightening his grip, before the warmth could seep away; the second he tried to ignore. The jangling eventually stopped and he sighed, delving his way back into the grey mist of sleep that hid him from the world.

Then it rang again, incessant. Growling, he half-turned and groped for the receiver.

''Lo,' he mumbled harshly.

'Ryan?' The relief in Sandy's voice was palpable and Ryan stiffened.

'You there? … Ryan?'

'Yeah,' Ryan said. He was awake now. Really awake. Cocking his head, he read the clock. 11:23PM. Shit, was that all?

'Glad I caught you,' Sandy continued and Ryan didn't miss the implication. 'I've been trying to call Kirsten, but she must be asleep.'

Ryan glanced at the still body beside him. 'Uh huh,' he muttered.

There was a pause before Sandy spoke again. 'So, everything okay, kid?'

_Peachy. Oh, by the way, I fucked your wife. Hope you don't mind._ 'Yeah,' Ryan lied.

'Good. I'll be back tomorrow. We'll talk then.'

_You bet._

'And Ryan? … Thanks for not letting me down.' Sandy rang off and Ryan dangled the receiver from his fingers.

_Sure. No problem._ He dropped the phone to the floor and tried not to hate himself.

………………………………………………………………………………

Kirsten was the mistress of pretence. Since childhood, under the scornful eye of her father, she'd become adept at hiding her emotions. She'd swallowed her grief after her mother's death, internalized her loss after the abortion, stifled her misgivings about Ryan's acceptance into her house and rationalized her initial concerns over Seth's friendship with the boy. Only her feelings for Carter and, later, Caleb's death had caused her mask to slip but, with the aid of seventy-proof, she'd reattached it – crooked, but effective; for a while, at least. Now the mask was gone, ripped from her in a frenzy of passion that shocked her; not because he'd been so violent, but because something within her had responded to it, had welcomed it.

Now she lay quietly, breathing carefully and feigning sleep. _Damn Sandy!_ Her irritation at being woken by her husband's call stemmed not only from the guilt of her betrayal, but because, when the phone rang, Ryan had had to twist his body away from her to seek the source of the annoyance and where there had been warmth, and a measure of security, there was now nothing. Which was crazy, because she should have been angry: angry that he had been spooned against her, holding her as though it was his right to do so; outraged that his bandaged hand had been draped so carelessly over her breast; shocked that she was still here, in this room, where she had been forced to see a side of her that she hadn't known existed; fearful of what tomorrow would bring. But she wasn't feeling any of those things, so she remained still, unsure of what to do.

Any hopes that Ryan would return to her after the call, seeking the solace she too craved, were unfulfilled, so they lay as strangers, sharing space, both afraid, like gauche teenagers whose first experience has been messily disappointing.

Clearly, she was out of her depth. She thought suddenly of Julie. Julie wouldn't have been out of her depth. Julie would have taken everything Ryan had offered, and then begged for more. Sandy had once told her that the only thing that saved Kirsten from becoming like Julie Cooper was him. Perhaps he'd been right, because it seemed whenever he wasn't around, she sought other comforts. And was that his problem, or hers?

She had no idea what time it was, only that it was still dark outside. She was exhausted and her body ached, but it was listless and she felt light-headed, as though removed from herself; it was not she who had allowed Ryan to fuck her. That had been someone else, someone she didn't recognize, and now she replayed the scene over and over in her head, watching this woman with a mixture of wonder and disgust; but where her actions appalled, the memory of his excited.

Had Ryan remained vulnerable she might have withstood him. Just as she had resisted the temptation offered by Carter's hesitant, almost polite, advances, she knew that she could have stayed strong if only Ryan had respected the boundaries. But his need had outweighed hers, his worldliness overshadowing her inexperience, bulldozing her into acceptance. It was the push she'd needed to cross the line. And once over, she was unsure how to get back.

Kirsten had slept with few men, and none since Sandy, and it felt ridiculous that Ryan, so much younger than she, had rendered her an eager girl, uncertain and giddy. But this was no time for silly girlish fantasies, she admonished. She and Ryan were not a couple. There would be no whispered pillow talk, no awkward planning of their next date and none of the excitement that such a future tryst might bring. There was only uncertainty and fear and a terrible sadness.

The question was what happened next? The answer, she acknowledged humiliatingly, was that she simply didn't know. Should she play the wronged older woman who had fallen victim to a younger man's predatory nature? Should she play the ice queen, and leave in regal splendour, draped in a 280 thread-count, her head held high? Should she lie still and hope he left first? Did she even want to leave? Unable to answer any of these questions, she did nothing, miserably hugging the sheet to her, her fingers curling into cotton until they ached.

Ryan sighed behind her, a hate-filled hiss that leaked slowly like pus from a wound and when at last he spoke she froze, staring into the darkness and seeing nothing.

'You need to leave now.'

And so she was dismissed. His voice was flat, and she reacted dully to it because within her wired brain was the realization that her pretence had been for nothing. He had known she was awake; had known and said nothing, done nothing. It wasn't the cue she'd been hoping for and her foolish hopes for an easy end to this mess were smothered by a feminine outrage that she'd been used.

Only faintly was she aware that her heart had started again.

………………………………………………………………………………

There. He'd said it. And it wasn't a lie. He wanted her gone, her naked body out of his bed, away from his hands that itched to touch her again. Exponentially and inexplicably, his lust had grown to match his loathing and he desperately needed to remove the source of both. It would be hours before Sandy returned and, with Ryan's dark side reasoning plenty of ways to fill in the time – _The damage is done, dude. No harm in a little follow-up fuck. You know you want to … you know she wants it. C'mon, man, lighten up, have some fun! _- he wasn't sure how long he'd be able to hold off.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her slowly sit up, the sheet shielding her breasts but exposing the delicate line of her back. Her skin glowed ghostly in the shadows and he swallowed and shut his eyes, aware only of a deep ache in his chest. Fuck! _Fuck, fuck, fuck!_ This was not how it was supposed to happen. This was not what he'd rehearsed in his head, over and over until it had become a litany of confession. But words had never been his forte. He'd always let his hands do his talking for him, whether it was to comfort, or bring a girl to a shuddering climax or beat the living shit out of someone; his hands had said it all.

He wanted to apologize, but he didn't know how. And if he did, how could mere words undo the damage these hands had wrought?

So, typically, he said nothing.

……………………………………………………………………………..

Kirsten switched on the lamp and regarded Ryan with something akin to hatred. Was this it? Was this all she was worth; a quick roll on the floor before being shown the door? Where were the explanations, the apologies, the awkward stammerings, the avowals that this would never, ever happen again? Where were the words that should have soothed? Ah, but this was Ryan, after all, she thought sourly; Ryan who was even more skilled than she at masking his emotions. Well … fuck him! _Fuck him! How dare he?_ She quivered with rage and confusion and hurt and her thoughts tumbled like desert weed in a wind. _No … yes … wait! … Wasn't this what she'd wanted? This was her excuse … to leave … to hell with him … let Sandy deal with him when he came home … damn her stupidity … fuck Ryan's guilt … fuck Sandy for not being here … fuck everything!_

So when she finally spoke it was in half-truths, her words forked and venomous.

'I should never have agreed to let you live here,' she snarled. 'I knew from the moment I saw you that you would bring us nothing but trouble.'

A muscle twitched in Ryan's cheek. 'Yeah, well I'm glad I didn't disappoint you,' he drawled.

She laughed then, a high-pitched cackle that signified her near-hysteria. 'No Ryan, you didn't disappoint me. You vindicated me and for that I thank you.'

'What are you trying to say, Kirsten? That I raped you? Because we both know it isn't true.'

She bit back a retort and glared at him. Now who's vindicated, he thought. He brushed a hand across his eyes. God he was so fucking tired … of everything.

'Just go, Kirsten,' he said. Didn't she realize there was no need for this, that he already blamed himself enough for the two of them? All she had to do was walk out the door and he could save them both.

She hissed. 'You ungrateful bastard! After all we've done for you-'

He held up a hand in mock protest. 'Please! Spare me the lecture about what a fucking saint you've been! How you rescued me from my broken home, my drunken mother, my sad, pathetic life!' His derision matched hers as he lowered his voice and mimicked, 'Oh look, everyone, look what we found! We're going to clean him up and clothe him and let him live with us. He'll be our little experiment!' He spat the last words contemptuously, his eyes dark with unconcealed anger.

'It was never like that! You've always been treated like one of the family. We trusted you-'

He sat up and faced her and she cowered away from his bulk. 'Bullshit! You trusted me just enough to let me live in your fucking poolhouse!'

'We wanted you to have some privacy!' she protested.

'Really? Or was it you who wanted privacy from me?'

She struggled to reply but, unable to defend herself, she attacked instead, petty and vindictive.

'So I'm to leave am I?' she sneered. 'Slink out of here like one of your little sluts-'

He rounded on her. 'What the fuck do you want from me, Kirsten?' he shouted. 'For three years I've tried to give you what I thought you wanted, what you all wanted. It's enough. There's nothing more in here.' Ryan thumped his chest.

'Then I guess it's official. You really are a cold, unfeeling bastard,' she bitched.

He wanted to scream: _You want my heart too? Here! Take it. It's yours. It's always been yours_! He wished he could take her hand and sink it into his chest and watch her pull the pulsing source of his pain slowly from his body, dripping tears of blood. Because God knows it couldn't hurt any more than it did now. But all he said was, 'Yeah, I guess I am.'

He couldn't bear to look at her anymore and bowed his head, so he didn't see her face crumple or the tears she tried to blink away.

Kirsten watched his head droop and she felt a sudden urge to brush his hair from his face. It needed a cut … _oh God!_ This was all her fault, she thought with absolute clarity. Not Sandy's, for bringing him here; not Ryan's for being here; not Seth's for befriending him and making it so easy for him to stay; not Marissa's for messing him about; not Theresa's for testing his loyalty; not Trey's for betraying him. No, it was her fault. For not seeing what she should have seen, for not being what she should have been.

Ryan heard her sob and wished he had some comfort to offer, but he hadn't been lying; even pity was beyond him now.

'Don't worry, Kirsten' he jeered coldly. 'Maybe Sandy will forgive you, maybe he won't. It's nothing a bottle of vodka won't cure-'

Her slap was like a gunshot, he thought absurdly; you heard the crack before you felt the bullet. His retaliation was instinctive. Grabbing her hand he twisted it viciously, forcing her back onto the bed. She screamed with fury and hit out at him again, her fist glancing off his other cheek. He grunted and swung his hips away, narrowly avoiding the knee that jabbed at his groin. She twisted beneath his grasp, all sinew and spite, and he swore when her nails gouged his skin.

_Don't do this_, his brain hammered but he was past caring. His dark half had won; he would get his follow up fuck. He threw a thigh across her legs, pinning them to the bed and, capturing the fist she wielded like a club, forced it up above her head. He had seen Kirsten dressed in gowns of sequin and silk, sheathes that teased and caressed her body. He had seen her power-suited and sweat-suited, bikini-clad and naked. But she'd never looked more glorious than she did now, with her face tear-stained, her body straining against the weight of his, the sheet tangled about her hips.

_Don't do this_. He dragged her other hand up, easily gripping both in one of his. She growled with frustration, but still struggled. _Don't do this._ His free hand skimmed her skin, dipping into the hollow of her armpit, brushing the curve of her breast, teasing her nipple. She panted, watchful and wary. _Don't do this._ He lowered his face until it was inches from hers. _Don't do this_. Her tongue darted nervously over her lips. _Don't do this. _He groaned in anticipation and something like triumph flashed in her eyes.

_Don't do this!_ his brain screamed. But as his mouth touched hers, he was lost. He traced her lips with his tongue, teasing and caressing and at her first moans, released her hands, knowing instinctively there was no need to restrain her. And when those hands cupped his face and brought his mouth down hard on hers, when those slender arms clasped him and held him close, the power shifted and he surrendered.

There was no haste, no frenzied coupling. Deftly she pulled the tank top over his head and kissed his chest, her small hands and her soft lips delighting in the feel of him. Slowly, he pulled away the sheet and bent to kiss her breasts and her belly. She opened her legs and he slipped between them and kissed her there too, feasting on her, his tongue darting and teasing, lapping like one who has ever thirsted. His fingers played with her, bringing her to the brink and letting her go, time and time again. And though he needed no encouragement, her hands tangled in his hair, urging him and stinging his scalp. When at last she convulsed he traced his tongue up her body, pausing at her breasts, tasting the salt of her sweat, smelling the perfume of her desire.

She was languid, soporific in the aftermath of her orgasm but he could not afford to wait. He pushed down his sweatpants and wriggled them off, then guided her hands to him. His breath caught at her first tentative touch, then exhaled slowly as she grew more bold, exploring the length of him. With practiced skill he rolled over, pulling her on top of him. She smiled knowingly, slyly, and, slithering down his body, bent her head, taking him into her mouth, sliding her tongue and teeth around him. The sight of her there was the most erotic thing he'd ever seen, and he gripped her hard, driving her on until he threatened to burst. With a low growl, he hauled her up and kissed her hard, bruising her mouth. The time for games was over.

He reached across and with a practiced twist, opened the drawer of the nightstand, fumbling for a condom, but she stopped his hand and shook her head.

'No need,' she whispered, a little sad, a little wistful and then it was gone.

She placed both hands on his shoulders, pushing him into the mattress. Straddling his body, she eased herself onto him and his mind screamed as he felt her hot flesh close tightly over him. With infinite slowness she masterminded each stroke and as she rode him he stiffened more and swelled further until every thrust was sweet torture. Again, she came before he did, crying aloud in her excitement, but he didn't let her stop. Pain was a beautiful thing but relief was better and, gripping her hips, he helped her bring him to a climax.

And as he did with so many other things, when it finally came, Ryan welcomed his mindless pulsating release with stoicism.

**tbc**


	5. Chapter 5

**V**

Contrition dawns and casts a pallid hue  
upon the lovers in their furtive tryst.  
Yet retribution shall demand its due  
for the cuckold, who has been Judas-kissed,  
returning to a house in disarray:  
his son unfathered has usurped his bed.  
The cards were cut, a Joker dealt in play;  
king, queen and jack were trumped and left for dead.  
'Ware Launcelot whose bloodied armour hides  
aloyal heart Queen Guinevere unbound;  
or Brutus, whose deception on the Ides  
saw Caesar stabbed and toppled to the ground.  
So preach the parables of Galilee:  
A house shall fall, if it divided be.

- **Ged:** _Sonnet for "House of Cards"_

………………………………………………………………………………..

Morning sunlight filtered slowly through the glass doors, sweeping shadows like dust motes into the furthest corners of the room. Ryan lay propped on one elbow, staring at the woman by his side. He was exhausted, drained in every way, and he recalled wistfully the long dark hours before dawn had heralded an end to his pleasure.

Kirsten wasn't asleep, but her eyes were closed defiantly in an effort to postpone the inevitable. Sighing, he bent and kissed her shoulder. She stirred and batted him away.

'No more,' she mumbled. He chuckled and traced the line of her body with his fingertips.

She opened one eye and muttered, 'What's so funny?'

'I was just thinking it's probably a good thing the new neighbours haven't moved in yet,' he mused.

She blushed and punched him softly. 'Was I that loud?' she asked, shyly.

Ryan's eyes followed his hand, circling and caressing her skin. 'You were perfect.'

Satisfied with his reply she rolled onto her back and stretched. 'What time is it?'

'Time for you to go,' he said softly. She didn't look at him and he hoped that this awkward moment would pass without regret. She gave a loud sigh and he tensed, waiting.

'You know,' she finally said, cocking an eye at him in mock reproach. 'This is the first time I've ever really looked at this ceiling. You should have told me it needed painting.'

He laughed then, a sound so unexpectedly joyous that it was as though the sun had shaken off its shackles and joined them in the room, bestowing the brightest of blessings; for Ryan knew, with absolute certainty, that Kirsten would be alright.

…………………………………………………………………………………

Sandy hated airports. He'd arrived in plenty of time to catch his flight, had strolled the shops and managed to find a gift for Kirsten, had drunk two cups of the worst coffee he'd ever tasted, had even managed to read the Times to which he contemplated, idly, subscribing, and was now perched uncomfortably on a hard plastic chair designed by Machiavellian engineers, staring morosely at the departures board and wondering why, of all the flights listed, his was the only one delayed.

Until five minutes ago, it had been a successful trip. The investors were slick, but Sandy reckoned he'd covered all bases and the deal was sweet. He sighed and shrugged off this new inconvenience with his usual optimism. He'd call Kirsten to let her know he'd be late then begin his hunt; there had to be someone around here who knew how to make a decent coffee.

Pulling his cell out of his pocket, he was poised to punch in the number when it rang.

'Dad?' Seth's voice was tinny, and Sandy clamped his free hand to his ear to block out the hum of terminal noise.

'Seth! How's Portland?'

'Yeah, good. Fine.' There was a pause. 'Luke sends his regards.'

'So, when are you due home? Will you be there for dinner?'

'Um … dunno. Maybe. Actually, that's why I'm calling.' Another pause. 'Have you spoken to Mom?'

'No. I was just about to call her. My flight's delayed.'

'Oh, okay. Well …'

'Speak up, son. I can hardly hear you.'

'It's just that I've been calling the house for ages and there's no answer. I've even tried Ryan's cell, but it's switched off. I dunno, maybe it's nothing, but I thought I might leave earlier, get home … you know, make sure everything's okay … Dad? … Dad?'

'No.' When Sandy finally spoke his voice sounded as remote to his ears as Seth's. 'No need for you to do that. Everything's fine. Stick to the plan and I'll see you at home later. Okay?'

'Yeah, okay.' Seth sounded relieved.

Sandy cut the call and frowned. Picking up his overnight bag, he strode to the check-in and slid his boarding pass across the counter.

'I need you to get me on a flight.' The urgency in his voice brooked no argument. 'Now!'

……………………………………………………………………………….

Kirsten stood, dwarfed in his tank top, uncertain and afraid. There was nothing to be said, no words of comfort that could bandage the hurt. What had been done, couldn't be undone and what lay ahead was a rocky path, overgrown and half-hidden by regret and recrimination.

Most unnerving was Ryan's silence, which had mantled him since they'd left the bed. His brooding had long been the butt of jokes, but she realized now that his moods were not so much a mask worn to shield himself from whatever blows the world saw fit to rain upon him; rather they were his core, an internal structure that supported and held him upright. Whatever Ryan felt, whatever emotion he expressed, whatever words issued reluctantly from his mouth, came from within. It was what separated him from everyone else, why he had never found peace amongst the superficial, never felt at ease in this Utopian mirage. And her understanding brought with it a certainty that, when she left here, she would never see him again.

Sighing, she stooped to retrieve her gown that still lay puddled on the floor. Ryan's hand shot out and gripped her arm. He shook his head.

'No. Leave it.'

She stared at his eyes, hooded with some dark intent, and gasped. 'No Ryan! It will kill-'

'It'll kill me not to, Kirsten,' he said, his voice hard, uncompromising.

Slowly she straightened, and nodded; she would let him do it his way. The time for arguing had long past. He took her hand then and led her to the door, like one might lead a reluctant child to a place filled with unknown and untried experiences. He paused at the threshold and turned her to him.

'Last night was …' he stopped and swallowed hard.

Her tears were falling freely now and as he raised a hand to brush them away, she whispered, 'For me too.'

He smiled sadly at her reply, remembering the last time they had spoken those words, knowing that this time, there could be no return, no forgiveness.

'Where will you go?' she asked. It was a silly pointless question but it disguised the one she really wanted to ask which was do you have to go? And there was no point asking that, because she already knew the answer.

He carefully brushed her concern aside. 'I can take care of myself.'

Yes, she thought suddenly, you can. But who will take care of us? She glanced across at the house and shivered. 'Ryan, I'm scared …'

He nodded. 'I know … and I'm sorry.'

'What should I tell Seth?' she asked.

He looked away then and she knew he was fighting for control. When he glanced back, she could see the sheen of misery in his eyes. 'Tell Seth …' he paused, struggled to find his voice then muttered at last, 'Tell him … I had to jet.'

So this is it, she thought, hugging the tank top to her body. She glanced at his face, but his expression was shuttered now. He had retreated to that place only Ryan knew, where no one else was welcome, a sanctuary that protected him from the world, and from himself.

'Goodbye,' she finally managed. It was pathetic and utterly inadequate, but Ryan, who had never asked anything for himself, who had held no expectations, seemed satisfied. He didn't reply, merely leaning forward and kissing her once. His lips were cold.

She turned and stepped away and as he watched her walk into the house, closing the door behind her he felt, for the first time, truly alone.

…………………………………………………………………………….

Kirsten leant against the shower wall and let the water course over her body, mingling with her salty tears, until it ran cold. As a panacea, it eased her aching muscles, but did nothing for the pain she felt inside. She turned off the water and sank slowly to the floor, her sobs echoing in the small, misty room.

…………………………………………………………………………….

Ryan showered briefly. He stood at the bathroom mirror and dispassionately regarded his reflection. _Move on folks, nothing to see here_. Nothing but a hollow shell in which he'd once hidden.

His cheek and chest bled, the crusts softened and washed away by the hot water and he dabbed them until they dried. Slowly, mechanically, he dressed, carefully keeping his mind blank. Thinking would only complicate the wait.

……………………………………………………………………………..

Sandy flung open the door and shouted for Kirsten. It was irrational, this fear that had gripped him since Seth's phone call, but he couldn't help it. He'd called her when he'd landed, only twenty minutes earlier than if he'd caught his original flight, and half a dozen times since, telling himself that perhaps there was a problem with the phone, perhaps she'd lost her cell, perhaps Ryan's had broken, perhaps … But no matter how he reasoned, he couldn't shake the cold hand that had gripped his heart and was slowly squeezing.

'Kirsten?' he called, striding swiftly through the house. 'Kirsten?' He reached the bedroom and saw the bathroom door shut. He tried the handle. It was locked and he pounded on the door. 'Kirsten?'

He heard a muffled sound and then her voice sounded shrilly through the door. 'Sandy?' He collapsed against the wood, his relief so great it was tangible.

'Thank God,' he said. 'I've been calling and calling … I was getting worried.'

There was a long pause before she replied. 'Sorry. I'm fine … um, I'll be out in a minute.'

'Okay. Take your time. I'll wait right here.'

There was a clatter and the sound of breaking glass. He tried the handle again. 'Kirsten? Let me in!' There was that hand again, gripping and twisting, making his heart race, slowing it down.

'Sorry,' she called, her voice high and unnatural. 'I dropped a bottle of perfume.' He heard her curse softly. 'Caffeine withdrawal, I guess … haven't had a cup of coffee yet. Could you put on a pot?'

Not a sound came from behind the door; clearly she was waiting for his reply.

'Sure,' he said slowly, backing away. 'Actually, I could do with a cup myself. Join me in the kitchen when you're ready …' But he had left the bedroom before he'd finished his sentence.

……………………………………………………………………………

Kirsten gripped the vanity so hard she thought her hands would break. She stared at her naked body reflected in the glass, wishing she never had to look at it again. The cloying stench of perfume filled her nostrils and she wanted to vomit. _He probably thinks I've dropped a bottle of vodka, that I'm drunk_. And this thought, that only yesterday she would have considered so unjust, now made her giggle hysterically.

And though her laughter echoed and bounced about the bathroom, she couldn't hear the ugly sound above the clamouring in her brain: _He doesn't know … he doesn't know … he doesn't know. Yet._

…………………………………………………………………………….

Ryan listened to each footfall with resignation. He stood by the bed, waiting, his hands curled loosely by his side. This was it, he thought. Whether it had been engineered by himself, or the impish move of some pitiless god, bored upon his cloud, the end game of last night would play out here. Now.

He watched as Sandy slowly entered, his black eyes finding him, taking in the hooded sweatshirt, the leather jacket, the choker. Sandy stared at the scratch on Ryan's cheek, then glanced back to the door where the carry-all lay patiently.

'Going somewhere, kid?' Sandy asked, his eyes flicking back to Ryan's, pinning him.

Ryan nodded curtly.

Sandy took a step forward. Any minute, Ryan thought. Any minute now.

'I thought you and I had agreed to talk about things,' Sandy said.

Ryan shrugged, thanking God that he already had an established reputation for taciturnity; he wouldn't have been able to speak, even if he'd known what to say. Sandy took another step, this time sideways. He let his eyes rest on the bed, the sunken pillows, the messed sheets. _Here it comes._

'What happened to your face?' he asked. He moved again, skirting Ryan, around the bed. _Any minute now … Fuck! Was the man blind?_

But then Ryan heard a hiss, like a punctured tyre leaking air, and he knew that both their questions had been answered, without a word spoken. He watched Sandy stumble and bend; watched him slowly straighten, his hands holding Kirsten's gown, trembling. He groaned, and Ryan winced to hear his pain.

'What have you done?' Sandy muttered. He held the gown up and Ryan watched his eyes flicker from the gown to the scratch on his face and back to the gown again, mottled with dried blood. 'Oh God, what have you done?' he cried, staring at his ward in horror.

'The blood is mine, Sandy,' Ryan replied quietly. It was all he was prepared to say in his defense. It should have been enough, but the older man didn't hear, or didn't want to hear. With a cry of anguish he threw the gown to the floor and moved towards Ryan, menacingly. Ryan wanted to shout, Yeah, I fucked her! But she fucked me too, man. Boy, did she fuck me and it was fucking glorious! And then we did it again and again and again. She screamed for it, Sandy, and if you'd only been around instead of trying to save the fucking world, it wouldn't have happened. But it did, and I'm fucking glad it did, because I now I understand that I want what you have. And I'll have it too one day. But I won't be like you, Sandy. Oh no, once I find it I won't ever let it go! But he couldn't say any of that, he couldn't do that to this man who had taken him in and nurtured him as a son. He couldn't cruelly, senselessly hurt him like that. So, as Sandy raised his fist and Ryan tensed to ride the blow, he simply repeated quietly, 'The blood is mine.'

The blow he'd expected, wished for almost, never came. Sandy dropped his arm and fell to his knees. Ryan's words had registered, he had understood what the boy was telling him, and it had shocked him to his core. He opened his mouth, but no words issued, just a moan filled with unimaginable pain.

A part of Ryan pitied him, a part of him wanted to apologize for bringing down this family, for whom he had strived so hard but ultimately failed, but that other part, the part that yearned for escape, wouldn't let him. The ties that once had bound were severed. He couldn't help Sandy now, just as he couldn't comfort Kirsten before. Just as he would never be able to explain to Seth. They would have to sort themselves out. And he knew they would. The mirage is always there, he thought. It never disappears completely; it just moves further away, just out of reach, something to strive for.

So Ryan left Sandy where he was and, moving away, picked up his carry-all, slinging it over his shoulder. Without a backward glance, he left that room forever, walked slowly through the house, and let himself out.

It was warm outside and under the bright Californian sun, Ryan began his slow descent from the heights. He was going home.

_**Fin.**_

_R & bloody R!_


End file.
